Page 282 of Unexpected Hero

Instead of being swaddled in despair, I emerged a new person.

A woman — strong, worthy, and beautiful.

But that old me is gone now.

If she was ever real to begin with. Perhaps it was all an illusion. Did I ever truly have control over my life?

A morose thought hits me, striking me in the chest with the weight of a freight train.

Oh yeah. I did take control of my life once.

It was the night I thought sitting at a bar alone was a good idea. Look where my independence led me.

I should’ve left with Freya. Hell, I should have never gone out on a stupid girls’ night. For that matter, I never should’ve left Climax, Georgia.

My mama’s taunting voice cuts through my psyche, and I hear it as clearly as if she were in the room with me.

I told you that leaving the church and the family would be a mistake.

See what having sex out of wedlock got you, Lettie?

You want to whore yourself out? Well, now that’s exactly what you are. A whore.

I deserve this. I’m being punished.

Tears rain down my cheeks, spilling onto my legs. Sobs shake my chest violently, and the pain in my ribs doesn’t even register over the anguish in my soul.

The Russian girl holds me, comfortingly stroking my shoulder.“What’s your name?” she asks when my tears subside. “I call you Butterfly in my mind. Because of song.”

Butterflies are free to fly.

Yet I’m not.

Does my name matter anymore? Do the consumables I used to pile in my buggy at the supermarket have names beyond their brand?Milk is just milk. It’s not Susie Milk. Or Jane Milk. There’s no butter named Lettie. It’s just milk and butter. We’re no different.

Blonde. Brunette. Sluts. Whores.

That’s all we are.

Bodies to be used.

We’re less than nothing. Names don’t matter.

When I don’t answer, she says, “I’m Tasha.”

The door swings open, bouncing on the wall. We all flinch from the hulking figure in the door. Except for the girl they drugged.

I hate to cower from him, but my strength reserves are depleted. So I burrow my face into Tasha’s shoulder, hoping they don’t drag me out. Shame at my cowardice inflames my raw insides.

He points at one of the girls on the floor. “Dark hair slut. Come. Now.”

I hate how the relief floods my system. I shouldn’t be happy that she’s about to be violated. But I can’t help it.

This is what I’ve become. Someone who feels relief when another woman is hauled out of the room instead of me.

I’m weak. Almost unrecognizable to myself.

This is how they do it — how they break us.

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